Aunt Clove stood and examined them. The silence was uncomfortable.
“I know,” she said bitterly to them.
Grace’s hand paused on a chess piece.
Oliver went a little pale, but he turned to face his mother with an attempt at his usual charismatic smile.
“You know what, Mother?” he asked.
“I know about your deceit. That you’ve been gallivanting around town like afoolwith that harlot of an actress.”
The color drained from Oliver’s face. “M-Mother—”
“And you,” Aunt Clove said, turning her wrath on Grace. “You knew. You ungrateful, scheming conspirator. This is your influence. Your bags are packed. You’ll be leaving tonight.”
“Mother, this is ridiculous. You’re mistaken—”
“I saw you. You were hardly discrete.”
Oliver laughed in shock. “You’re not about to throw Grace out on the street,” he said.
Aunt Clove’s voice was like ice. “I am.”
“Go ahead,” Oliver said. “Then we can explain to Lillie exactly where Grace is and why she went.”
He turned protectively to his cousin. “Don’t worry, Grace. If she insists on carrying through with this nonsensical threat, I’ll get you a hotel room in the nicest part of town.”
“And whose money will be paying for it?” Aunt Clove asked. “You spend it like it’s yours, Oliver. But it won’t be, not until I’m dead.” She took a threatening step toward him.
“And if you continue dallying with this girl, I’ll make sure you won’t see a dime of it.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Oliver declared.
“No,” Aunt Clove said, her fury roiling like the hot breath of a bellows stoking a flame. “You are the future of this family, Oliver Henry Carter. And so no, you are not marrying that girl. So help me God, over my dead body, you are not.”
CHAPTER SIX
MAY 3, 1904
The Day of the Murder
“I’VE PAID FORtwo nights at the hotel,” Oliver said, handing Grace a key. “That’s all the cash I had on me, but I’ll get more.”
“Oliver, you don’t have to do this,” Grace protested, grasping her carpetbag. She glanced at the potted palms set around the lobby of the Lamplighter Inn, the row of gleaming keys hanging in neat lines behind the front desk.
“Yes, I do. It’s my fault you’re in this mess,” Oliver said. “I’m so sorry. We’ll figure it out.”
She kissed him goodbye and climbed the staircase to her room. The Lamplighter was a temporary, women’s-only hotel that had been erected for the fair, and half of Grace couldn’t believe that she was there—that her aunt had made good on her threat. Oliver had wanted to put her in the nicest hotel available, but they determined that one meant for women patrons only would be safest and most respectable.
Grace set down her carpetbag and locked the door behind her. It was just after midnight.
The room was a far cry from the lush trappings of her room at the Carter house. Gone were the heavy satin drapes, the four-poster oakbed, and the porcelain knickknacks above the carved fireplace. Grace stood in the middle of the room, suddenly feeling terribly alone. There was a single painting of irises hung on the wall.
The ones Walt used to paint were better.
Grace dressed for bed and brushed out her hair. She wondered, once again, where her older brother was. What he was doing. It used to break Grace’s heart to hear her mother’s keening cries in the night and even more when she showed up in the kitchen the next morning perfectly put together, the fake smile she used for everyone else on display there for Grace, too.
Don’t push me away, Grace had wanted to scream at her.Don’t make me an outsider beyond your walls. I’m beyond everyone else’s, everywhere. Don’t keep me outside yours, too.
